The Chester Games
by chapelali5
Summary: In the remains of a city once known as Chester, lies the suburb of Hollyoaks, an abandoned blood bath, famously known for its high murder rate. To mark the reinstatement of the death penalty in Britain, 14 young male offenders between the ages of 15 and 18 are forced to participate in a televised death match called the Chester Games; where 13 will pay the ultimate price.
1. Chapter 1

Extended Plot: In the remains of a city once known as Chester, lies the suburb of Hollyoaks, an abandoned blood bath, famously known for its high murder rate. To mark the reinstatement of the death penalty in Britain, fourteen young male offenders between the ages of fifteen and eighteen are forced to participate in a televised death match called the Chester Games. Thirteen will pay the ultimate price for their violation of the law whilst the last 'man' standing gets to escape any further imprisonment and earn their ultimate freedom.

Disclaimer: The idea behind this story is based on the book "the Hunger Games" by Suzanne Collins.

Glossary:

Feltham: A prison for male juveniles and a young offender's institution in London.

USLA: Under school leave age.

Written from Brendan's Point Of View.

Part One: The Tributes

Chapter One

_*I have a cape. It's not a cape. It's a sheet but I call it a cape because I'm a young'un, a wee mucker with a huge imagination. I soar like a bird and the sheet gets caught up in a tranquil oscillation. Both of my arms are spread like the Angel of the North, like I'm an undefeatable warplane. I'm inviolable it seems… almost unbreakable. Then the capering concludes and I cease for quarantine. He's here. I can hear him respire. It's a dastardly reverberate. I embellish to capture a chalky-white complexion. Then the walls close in. Footsteps I hear footsteps. They pulsate. I disintegrate in acquiesce. He extricates the buckle to inaugurate a cacophony. He slides the substantial cotton sheathing his posterior downs slowly, gently past his waist. I delve into the infelicitous moment of cessation and then I start to fall...*_

When I wake up, the homecoming back to reality is anything but consoling. It's haunting and I'm there, hanging helplessly like a puppet; bouncing recklessly like a jack in the box. My breathing is untimely and my palms are wet. _"Stay away from me!" _I caterwaul softly, panting excessively in my chest as sweat appears to leak drastically from my skull. Lowering back down, my backbone feels frozen and tips of my fingers feel numb. I reach out for the duvet in a bid to pull it back up past my waist but finding only the loose fabric of the pyjamas bordering my bony legs. I must have kicked it off in my sleep. Of course I did. Evil interrupted my dreams again last night.

This very duvet has grown to be my nemesis in the past year (if you can say that about a quilt). I like to think we have a love hate relationship, though if you ask the quilt itself, it would probably say we have a hate hate relationship. It's more 'volatile' than 'hate'. Sometimes in the winter, the duvet is all I have to rely on for protection, not only from the nippiness that such a season brings but also from myself. Sometimes I wake up wrestling with it, wanting to escape from whatever nightmare is crippling my brain. And there is the quilt, acting as a bouncer, restraining me to the depths of the mattress.

I prop myself up on one shaky elbow. There's enough light in the cell to see it. My duvet heaped up there in a pile on the floor. I listen gently to my cold beating heart starting to pace itself; as I try to think, try to remember; that today could be the day where I finally escape from this. Because today;_ is the day of the reaping._

Many of us know very little about it. But what we do know is that each of us here at Feltham, has a one in sixty chance of being chosen. And though the exact rules are confidential, we know that one us here today will be leaving Feltham and we won't be coming back. And me, having been here for almost two years and being so tiredly sick of this cell, its leaking tap, the cream walls, the stench of the urinals, the juveniles… I'm so desperately hoping that it's me.

Our wing, nicknamed the USLA wing, is usually crawling with staff by this hour; either cautioning us for threatening to bash each other's faces in or readying us for breakfast which isn't until 7am. But today the corridors are empty and there are no threats.

I hunch over on the edge of the bed, my legs swinging like a pendulum, for the silence is overbearing and I contemplate whether or not is the right time to break it. My attention turns towards the sink, a beryl shade of green and soon in time, my restless eyes focus towards the tap and then the water, which is ever so provokingly dripping and dropping and tapping out of it. No big deal for some, but for me it's like dirty nails desecrating against a chalk board. And it's then and only then that I decide that; nope, I can't take the silence anymore.

In the cell besides me rests the only person with whom I can be myself. Foxy.

"Foxy!" I call, knuckles rattling against the wall that separates us. His real name is Warren, but his surname is Fox. When he first came in for arson, he was a scrawny little thing, so Foxy became my official nickname for him.

"What the fuck do you want Brady?" The sound of his voice brings a smile. Foxy says I never smile, only when I'm eating.

"I'm going to smash your face in and shove a spoonful of cornflakes down your throat." I say.

"Oh, is that right?" says Foxy "I'm going to shove a spoonful of cornflakes up your arse."

Cornflakes and milk; we both love to joke about it because it is the only thing Foxy has dared to eat for breakfast since arriving here. Right now, it's silent again, so I resort to bashing my door in. The officers hate it, say we do it for attention, try to ignore it and nine out of ten times fail. As soon as I do, Foxy joins in, until we both appear to have conducted an orchestra of door and wall.

The morning staff arrive, can't appear to hack the noise for much longer. We're all early morning birds here, bar a couple of night owls. They start to let us out one by one, so I ram a brush through my hair a couple of times, rip a few out in the process and put on my cross.

We settle once it comes to breakfast. In this place, we are far too hungry, far too occupied to even care about keeping our promises to bash in our fellow offenders. I watch as a spoon dives into a bowl of milk and cornflakes and starts to circulate, like it has done many times before.

"One of us could finally do it," Foxy says softly.

"What?" I ask, fiddling with the spongy filling which lay beneath the chairs plastic covering that had already been picked at.

"You know, leave Feltham. One of us stands a chance of being chosen." says Foxy.

The conversation feels wrong. I'd thought before about leaving, about wanting it so badly, but never about leaving Foxy behind, or what it would feel like to be the one left behind. And then there are the odds, a 1 in 30 chance. And if the odds are so minimal, why bother talking about it?

By the time we finish eating its 8:30am. At this time, we should be attending class but today, with the reaping being at midday, the staff has made an exception. Instead they send us to the gym, tell us to exercise but no one does. We stand, converse, bite off nails, stare into space... so they try to tempt us with a football; a past privilege taken away from us on the contrary of poor team spirit. All are easily lured towards the football field but me and Foxy decide to stay put.

What do you want to do?" I ask.

"Talk," says Foxy.

"We always talk," I say.

"Exactly," says Foxy, "one can never talk too much."

We may have played if it wasn't reaping day but with the minutes counting by, we relish for a bit of one to one time. Besides, it's not very often we get the gym all to ourselves.

When the pointless rambling about Fentham, its food, how much we bloody hate it and Foxy's apparent obsession with milk and cornflakes is finally over, we're lead back to our cells and ordered to shower. I'm told to tidy myself up. And then I find it, the politician clothes, the kind of shit you wear to weddings, laid out on my bed.

"You're fucking joking ain't ye?" I ask.

"Just do it." No sympathy, no understanding, no questions asked.

It's quarter to twelve by the time they get me in that suit. And "I'm the only one to cause problems" apparently. When they hurry me down the corridor, I'm silent. I'm lead back towards the dayroom; it's exactly where we were several hours before for breakfast. Though, the space appears to have got tighter. There's a temporary stage with a podium, three chairs and a glass ball that resembles a fish bowl; I stare at the paper slips with our names on. Sadly the reaping has to be held here; it's that or risk offenders escaping.

I find myself separated from Foxy; my punishment for arriving late. Instead I'm sandwiched between two other offenders, Danny Houston and Noah Baxter. And I'm prejudiced to hate them both because I barely know either of them.

All three chairs are filled with unfamiliar faces, a man we've briefly been introduced to as "Fraser Black" the man responsible for the reaping and two blonde females, sat on either side of him.

"I'll have her," Foxy whispers across to me, pointing to the one on the left and I'm made to lip read because he's several rows back.

Just as the clock strikes twelve, Fraser Black steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the usual junk to begin with; how we ended up here and why. He tells the history of England, how in past times we'd be hung, drawn and quartered for our crimes. How we're lucky, or not so lucky because in exactly seven days, the death penalty will be restored back to English law. He lists the crimes, the attempted murders, the assaults, the armed robberies, some of the reasons why so many of us are doing time. Because it's our fault, because we couldn't just behave. And most importantly what it could mean for us now, how our futures are set to be bleak. And then it's finally time for the reaping.

Before sitting back down he introduces to us, first the woman on this left Clare Devine, then the woman on his right, Grace Black. They rise, approach the podium, actions near on synchronized. I look back to spot Foxy nodding at me, a sickly white.

"Good luck," I want to tell him because deep down I know he wants this as much as I do. But it's time for the drawing. "Right boys," Clare Devine says; men I want to correct her, men, because I'm not a boy. She reaches deep into the glass ball, fiddles for a while with the sixty slips of paper, and pulls out a name. The room is silent, so silent in fact that I'm sure, at least almost sure that I can hear the water gently dripping, dropping, tapping from the leaking sink back in my cell.

My neck is tense and spasming obstreperously and the colour is draining from my face and I'm nauseous. The slip of paper is placed gently on the podium which Grace Black unfolds and uncreases, then reads the name out in a loud clear voice. I kiss my cross. And in that moment of time I'm hoping, praying that it's anybody but Foxy, because I know I can't get through another day, nor another night in this place without him. And it's not Foxy.

It's Brendan Brady.

Author's note: Thank you for reading. :-) Ste and other regular faces will come into this at a later stage I promise.

For anybody interested to know who the other offenders taking part will be here's a list, I've also included their ages:

1. Brendan Brady 16  
2. Ste Hay 15  
3. Rhys Ashworth 15  
4. Dodger Savage 16  
5. Darren Osbourne 16  
6. Doug Carter 15  
7. Freddie Roscoe 17  
8. John Paul McQueen 15  
9. Trevor Royle 18  
10. Joel Dexter 15  
11. Cameron Campbell 16  
12. Sonny Valentine 17  
13. Simon Walker 17  
14. Kevin Foster 15


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

One time, when I was a boy, I went out camping with Da. There was no choice. If it had become known to my mother that I had never truly wanted to go, there'd be questions, plenty of them, because _what son doesn't like spending time with their Da?_He left once it was dark, scavenged to the end of the woods. The sun had bid farewell early evening and the fire had gone out. I remained by the site, solitary, told to tend the tent because one of the sides, my side, had collapsed. It didn't bother me but Da insisted. "Ye can't risk it," and Da's word was always final "getting smothered in yer sleep." _It still is final._ Deeply, it wouldn't have mattered what happened to me that night; if I were to suffocate, drown, catch on fire, be savaged by a bear but Da, pretending to care; that's the closest we will ever come to love.

I was terrified, and for a while I felt alone, trapped in a desolate world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was one thing, I couldn't trust Da. And for that reason alone, I had no choice but to disassemble the tent. And I was fine with that part, but when it came to the reassembling, the pegs, the string, the poles and the sky lacking in light, it was useless. So I gave in. _He may slap me once or twice_, I thought, _but I can take it_. But I was wrong to be so stubborn.

When Da returned, I remember him, waddling like a penguin, arms so full with dampened branches that he was struggling to set path. I should've helped him unload but I couldn't, even if I wanted to. I was far too focused, not only on the heavy pounding of my heart but the chilling run of shivers down my spine, the rattling of my weary bones and Da, the sinister glare in his eyes and how inside of them, I could see the moon; a shining silver.

When the inevitable came, there was no other way to put it. My life, in the hands of my dear old Da. And I let him. It should have never been that way but I was too hungry and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let him beat me I thought. Or better still; let me die right here in the cold. My punishment for being "bad"; which of course I couldn't help then nor can I help now because it runs in the blood. _Crunch went my bones _and then the world stood still. The noise still haunts me to this day.

And so it was left to me, yet again, to explain the reasoning behind the prints of angry hands that marked my body from head to toe, some so severe, I feared they may never heal. And yet I was willing to take it all, if it meant a single finger could be spared from ever lashing my sister's soul. I could never let that happen to her; not Cheryl. Sweet, little Cheryl… who sat on our father's knee as he skimmed the Irish Independent, got toffee lumps stuck in her hair and nursed her many ragdolls to sleep. Brendan she named one of them. Brendan; with the ginger woolen locks and a dodgy eye. True colours would crush her like a grape, steal her innocence, so I kept the predicament a secret _and I fell out of the tree;_ a great justification for a fractured wrist.

Other times when Da was either too tired or too sober to care, he could settle with a simple slash to the stomach. He knew I hated it more than the usual beatings. His pity; it made me sick. And so the case of generosity, as he liked to put it, went like this; air would be forced out from my lungs, and I'd be semi-conscious and wanting to surrender but my body, blue, purple and black, would refuse to give in. And so my heart would still be beating and my blood would still be pumping. So I would just lie there, battered and _alive_; left to face his beatings for another day.

My breath cut short, that's how I feel right now, trying to remember how to get back up from a knock when somebody beats you down. Someone, Noah, is waving his hand in front of my face, trying to signal for me to blink because I haven't done that for several minutes. There must have been a mistake. I'm not usually this lucky; for me there was no luck o' the Irish. I must have been the unluckiest tyke in Dublin. I've never won anything in my entire life. Not even a game of monopoly.

There are many pretty fields in Dublin if you know where to find them. My mother knew and in the summer she taught me ways to indentify the flowers that grew there and sometimes, when Da wasn't there, she'd tell me what each of the flowers stood for. On most occasions, she'd make jam sandwiches; homemade strawberry jam. "Daisy," she'd say, "innocence. "Honeysuckle," I'd repeat "generosity". Inside the fields you can roam freely. My mother didn't live a very free life, (God bless her soul), so I like to picture her there. Da found her on the floor one night in late September; she had frothy yellow stuff coming out her mouth and she never woke up. _We lay white lilacs at her funeral. _

Somewhere far away, I can hear Cheryl playing happily away in the fields. My cape flurries through, brushing past still blades of grass. They're standing tall like little soldiers. And then I see him through the parade because apparently it's home time. But I can't go home. Because at home is my mother's ashes, my father's temper and the empty whisky bottles that litter the living room floor. I think ever so deeply of home. Above the fireplace there's a family photo; me and Mam and Da and Cheryl. In the room the lights are out but the fire is alight. And the flames are attacking the coal like hungry sharks. And then I finally spot it. His eyes, staring dead straight at me. It's just a photo I try to tell myself but it's more than that. It's the detail, the hatred in his eyes that brings me back to myself.

"Brendan!" I hear a strangled cry erupt from behind me. I don't need to look to locate its owner but I do so anyway because life is so unpredictable that sometimes you can never be too sure. And I was right. It is Foxy. I find him staring at me and our eyes latch for several seconds before I abruptly pull away. It's not an "I'm happy for you mate" stare. It's an "I'm begging you please don't leave me," kind of stare. I've never seen him like this before; the puppy eyes, the sadness. But I can't do sympathy. Not when it's 'every man for himself' in this world.

When I turn back to face the front, I'm met by another pair of eyes. Clare Devine, she must have clocked it. That I'm Brendan Brady. I'm gestured to make my way towards the front of the stage and the crowd, the juveniles who earlier this morning were banging their doors and thumping their walls _for attention_, are so silent you could hear a pin drop. I'm spared the obstacle of fat, lanky, bony legs. All feet are drawn back and tucked neatly under chairs immediately. All apart from Danny Houston's. He always was a cast ironed fucker at the best of times. Even now.

When I'm finished mounting the steps, I'm welcomed by Fraser black and pushed centre stage. And then it's all eyes on me as they try to encourage me to take a bow. I _don't._ Why rub this in their faces more than I already have to? _I get to leave. And you don't._ _No,_ I think. _I'd rather keep my dignity. _

"Ladies…" says Grace Black. I watch the eyes of the crowd roll. She clears her throat and starts again. "Gentlemen… your chosen representative." Nobody claps, they don't even try. It says we don't agree, it's unfair, so she pushes me further to the forefront. The envy here is awkward but I can't blame them. Not when the whole process seems so cruel. _Give them hope and then take it back before it even gets a chance to sink in._ "Don't hate me" I want to say. Hate England, hate its law. Hate yourself for breaking them. I look back at Foxy. The shock is still registering on his face, he's struggling to remain impassive but the grey eyes of fear give away his game, for I can tell of his sorrow.

Sam Lomax, the longest serving member of staff here at Feltham enters the stage. She looks at me, nods and then begins to read a long, dull reading on the history of Feltham, its institution and its young offenders. I'm not listening to a word of it. _It's his fault._ I think. Then I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter but it's useless because he's always on my mind. He had this hold over me, he still does. I think of the many tools he tried to break me with and how I'm still standing here, still breathing.

I think of how it came to this. How he forced us to leave our home in Dublin, to start a better life in London and how our mother's grave still remains there, no white lilacs laid in front of it. I think of the countless beatings and how in the end, he drove me to the unthinkable… and then before I reach any conclusion my thoughts are cut short at the thumping of a broken microphone in an attempt to get it working again.

Fraser Black finishes the reading. Apparently it's required because the passage tells of past offenders, who have longed for rehabilitation and managed to turn their lives around for the better. It's plausible but why bother? We're not those people. Some will never change. He motions for me to shake his hand and I do so, look him in the eye whilst he gives me what feels like a strong, affirming squeeze. _Maybe he's just heavy handed, maybe the intention is not for consolidation at all._

I turn back to face the stage as the British national anthem plays:

O Lord our God arise  
Scatter her enemies  
And make them fall  
Confound their politics  
Frustrate their knavish tricks  
On Thee our hopes we fix  
God save us all…

Authors note: Thank you for reading. To anyone who reviewed the previous chapter, particularly any guests who I was unable to thank in person, thank you all so very much. :-) Your kind words mean the world.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The moment the anthem ends, I'm officially released from custody and then immediately recaptured. By recaptured I don't mean being interviewed, handcuffed and then thrown straight back into a cell or anything but a guard is made to march me back through the length of Feltham and out of the front entrance. He's dressed in deep red velvet and orders me to smile because apparently my reaction is set to be recorded and aired later on along with the reaping. I don't need to be told to smile because momentarily, I'm laughing. "Did ye have to audition for this?" I ask, nodding over my left shoulder towards him as if gesturing the absurdity of his role as 'royal guard'. "What's that?" he says. I want to face palm because how can anybody take any of this seriously? "The poncey costume… the upper-class accent; nobody talks like that in London, not even the Queen. It's just stereotypical bullshit," I add. "Well, you can't help being born into wealth sir." I roll my eyes. "So who are ye then the Queen's cousin?" I say, nudging his side gently with an elbow before immediately regretting it. And then I'm reluctantly forced into rethinking my entire plan of action. "Are you your father's son?" his words are like a dig in my gut. It's banter I think, just friendly banter, but the words burn and so I say nothing in my defense. "I mean… I'm glad you find it so amusing sir, just wait until you reach the training centre." "The wha–" a camera is shoved in my face as we finally approach the exit and I'm startled, so startled in fact that I almost forget to smile. And then I suddenly remember something that further prevents any smile from painting itself onto my face, Foxy. _I forgot to say goodbye to Foxy. _

It's a quiet ride from Feltham to the Hall of Justice. I haven't been in a car for over sixteen months. It's rare for offenders to ever get the chance to ride in one during their stay in custody, unless you get ill or have to be transferred. And apparently I've developed some form of motion sickness since being locked up because the journey leaves me heaving and nauseous. Yet I somehow manage to survive the journey, I'm glad to say, vomit free with my head perched out of the window lapping up the fresh air as if it were water.

Once we arrive, I'm ushered to a room and left alone. The Hall is freshly built it seems because the paint on the walls is potent in smell and clean of any marks or scuffs. It's a huge line between here and Feltham I feel, with thick, silk carpets ornate in design and a leather couch and padded chairs. When I sit on the couch, I can't help brushing my knuckles against one of the arms because it's so fine and of high-quality. It helps to calm me down as the fear of the unknown starts to get to me. Now, I've been told, is the time allocated for us offenders to get a chance to say hello and goodbye to our loved ones; if we have any who care enough to visit us that is. I don't expect anyone because I only have one friend, Foxy bar Eoghan and Pete who still remain in Dublin. And then there's my sister, Cheryl, although you're more likely to see pigs fly than Da ever allowing her to see me again. It's true. Besides, I'd rather die than have to face him again.

No one does come to visit me. An hour in, and the guards decide to move me early on to the training centre. I like to think the reasoning behind this is to spare me of the four walls because in reality, I know they most probably just feel sorry for me and if there's one thing I hate more than anything in this world, it's other people's pity.

A guard comes to collect me and I follow him through the narrow cream corridor. Perhaps it's the simplicity and shallowness of the colour, but the walls seem especially dull and empty. A couple of paintings hang merely from a nail and a piece of string and I can't help but expect them to come crashing down to the ground. One of them depicts a small boy sitting alone in an empty room and he's crying, I'm sure of it, with his knees drawn up to his chest. The other painting shows a small girl, perched happily on her father's knee, that's Da and Cheryl I think briefly and I can't help appreciating such a precise juxtaposition.

Another guard is waiting for us at the entrance with Fraser Black. It's only now since the reaping, that I manage to get a proper good old look at him. His hair is scruffy and brown, his eyes are dark grey and his nose is pointed over at the bottom like an arrow head but what of his age? Forty? Fifty? Sixty? No, he looks too young to be sixty but far too old to be forty. Fifty, I think. I'll settle for fifty.

I jump, my eyes nearly sent flying out of my skin, as Fraser Black takes a sudden turn to one of the guards and grips them by the arm, hard. Something about his actions are alarming.

"Where's the boy?" Fraser scowls.

"Still refusing to leave, he said he'll wait as long as it takes," says the guard, pulling his wrist away from Fraser Black's grasp in one strong, swift movement.

I raise an eyebrow. "What boy?" I say quietly. _There was never any mention of any other boy._

"The boy from Isis," says a guard.

"Well go and fetch him then," Fraser's voice has risen to a shout, in it what sounds like an uncontrollable anger "drag him if you need to, I don't have time for these games."

And then Fraser Black shoves himself right past me and so I gaze at him with dirty, playful eyes expecting an apology before almost immediately realizing that I'm not in fact going to get one and so I cross my arms thinking; "fine, if that's how you want to play it". _If he can't read minds, I hope he can read body language._

By this time, Fraser Black is at the other end of the corridor, signaling for the guards to get on with the dirty work and there's a stern look in his eyes that say "stop being so soft."

I start to tap a foot with impatience. Whoever this boy is, I'm really starting to hold a grudge against him. I feel a sudden desperate, desperate need to get out of this place. There's a feeling about it, the blandness in the walls, the lack of decoration, the silence, the dimness in the lighting. And when the minor details are all added up together, it's just like being back inside my cell. Granted it's nothing like Feltham, I'm no longer being closed in but the guards following me around everywhere like small, little lost lap dogs. It's close enough.

We remain silent, all three of us until one of the guards decides it's best for us all if we start to get a move on if we all want to refrain from getting on the wrong side of Fraser Black.

"Right, so do you want to go, or should I?" They start to survey each other for about forty seconds, and it's the guard standing on the left in particular, who I spot examining the other's build in depth. What are they doing I think, and then it hits me, the bigger one, the stronger one, is going to go in, and drag the poor boy out. And because I know all too well that this approach is almost certainly going to end in nothing but disaster I decide that I cannot let this happen. Because I've seen it far too many times before. Shrimpy little teenage boys are much stronger than you think. So instead I say, maybe foolishly, "Me, let me get him out."

Then they both look at each other before looking back at me like I'm some sort of ludicrosity. "I'm afraid I can't allow that Sir."

"And why not? Why don't ye both just face it? He's not going to come out for any of ye, not in a million years. This is a juvenile we're talking about and life isn't quite going his way at the moment. So what-", I trail off to pause before ranting on, "So what does he do? He throws a tantrum. And why? Because he wants yer attention and you're not giving it to him. So ye can say whatever coaxing bullshit ye like or ye can drag him out by his legs, but if ye want him to do what ye want, ye need to get him to trust you."

When it seems that I've appeared to silence the pair of them, I shrug. But it's not long before the two of them exchange nods and we're all quickly making our way towards a room opposite to the one I was in earlier and then I notice him, sitting alone in the corner. He's perched up on the couch with his knees pulled tightly into his chest. The boy in the painting, I think, he looks just like the boy in the painting.

I creep in cautiously, my footsteps gentle and wondrous, clueless as to how exactly I'm going to get him out of here. For a moment I'm not too sure whether he has noticed me or not, my silent approach when invading made it sound as if I were walking on tiptoes upon entrance. But when I see one of his eyes flicker, I'm certain, almost certain that he's spotted me trespassing in his territory.

Now, how should I go about this I think? Should I be friendly, domineering, sympathetic or abrupt? Friendly, I think, I'll try the friendly approach. Friendly but not too in-your-face otherwise he may just tell me to "fuck off" straight.

"Hey there lamb chop, my names Brendan." _Blanked._ "What's your name?" _Blanked again. Okay, so maybe the lamb chop part was unnecessary; somewhat uncalled for. _I decide to try friendly again only this time I'm less willing to hold back on the physical contact. That way he definitely cannot ignore me.

"What's up?" I ask, thumping the boy on the back with a flat palm "You look bad, I mean really bad. That baby face of yours is a mess."

"Nothing," he releases finally but I refuse to accept that.

"Are you scared?" I ask.

"No, it's nothing," he says and I watch on as his eyes find the floor. My face starts to flush a subtle red because inside I'm losing patience with this boy.

"Suit yerself," I say bluntly, openly moved to anger myself now. "I just thought ye may want somebody to talk to but if you'd rather be alone…" I turn to face the door before I hear his mellow voice start to flicker.

"I..I.."

He's almost facing me now. His face is red, his skin looks hot and sticky and the white bits in his eyes are red, although it's almost difficult to make out because his hair is in such desperate need of a trim.

Slowly, I approach him. "Go on," I prompt before lowering to kneel in front of him. With three middle fingers, I gently draw the curtain of hair away from his eyes. And then I get a proper look at him; blue eyes, brown hair, just like me although my eyes are more of a grey tinge and I have a much more plausible hairstylist it seems. "Well aren't you quite the pretty boy," I think, almost say before managing to withdraw my inner thoughts.

"I just don't want to go there. I don't trust these people. And I…," our eyes latch and I can't help feeling a slight connection with the boy but then I tell myself that it's nothing, how can it be? He's a stranger and this, what I'm feeling now, it's nothing but pity, "the only place I want to go is-"  
"Home," I finish. The moment the boy started it was the first word that came into my head. Home; you could almost touch it, it's there hanging like a heavy wait on our shoulders. I don't know exactly what home it is I want to return to, but I feel at loss. And whilst I think about it, I can't help thinking that somewhere out there in Dublin, my mother is there waiting for her boy to return, to fill her grave with white lilacs.

"Ye do understand that the only way for any of us to actually go home is to go through with this; whatever it is, wherever it is, whatever it means," I say. _That's it; I've got him, wrapped around my little finger, right where I want him._

"You have absolutely no idea," he replies. _Okay, maybe not._

"Don't I?" I say.

"No, you don't. They're going to kill us, right."

"What? Who told you that?"

"Macca."

"Well 'Macca' is wrong." I hear my voice start to rise, as I ever so drastically pull myself away from his hold; the sight of his eyes are like a beautiful ocean but like an ocean, you can ever so easily get lost in them and that, I can't afford to let that happen. "Sorry," I mutter, waving a hand to try to reassure him of my recomposure.

"What are they going to do to us then?" He asks.

"I don't know but not that. And..." I rise from the silky carpet before sinking my buttocks back down into the leather couch. "And even if they do try to…" he clasps my face in his hands and I accept his affections with open arms. Anything, I think, I'll take anything, I just need to get us out of here, "we won't let them."

"Promise me." I can't promise. I'm Brendan Brady and I hurt everything I touch. The boy has known me no more than ten minutes but already he trusts me…more than I can appear to even trust myself.

"I promise," I say stupidly, because frankly I can't see any other way forward unless I manage to get this boy on my side. He smiles, a set of white gnashers reflect against the light and I flicker a slight one back.

"One more thing, what's yer name?"

"Ste. And I've got another thing. Don't ever call me baby face again."

The pair of us giggle and I offer a hand to help him up from the comfy, welcoming seat of leather. "Right come on Steven, we're going home."

Author's note: Sorry for the wait my lovelies. And also for some reason the previous chapter ended up being replaced by chapter one, so it appeared that I had chapter one posted twice, but I've fixed it now! :-) Again, many thanks to those of you who reviewed. And thank you so much for being understanding and patient. Also, it appears that Sonny is in the firing line. ;-)


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